


refreshingly verbose

by elizabethgee



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Anal Sex, Consensual, Dirty Talk, M/M, Masturbation, Possessiveness, Rough Sex, Size Kink, So much smut, jeez what even is this, this is wild yall i'm sorry in advance, very hastily written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27088489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethgee/pseuds/elizabethgee
Summary: Prompt fill: dirty talk"Diarmuid likes to talk— from morning til evening he talks about anything and everything that comes to mind. He doesn’t have the filter that comes with living amongst crowds of people, and it should be frustrating, but instead the Mute finds it refreshing."
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58





	refreshingly verbose

Diarmuid likes to talk— from morning til evening he talks about anything and everything that comes to mind. He doesn’t have the filter that comes with living amongst crowds of people, and it should be frustrating, but instead the Mute finds it refreshing. It’s…innocent, somehow, and honest in a way the Mute craves. With all the lies he’s been told throughout his life, any bit of honesty is a balm against his wounds.

It only becomes an issue when the Mute takes him to bed. Diarmuid just can’t keep quiet, whether it’s full sentences about how the Mute feels when he takes Diarmuid’s erection down his throat, or it’s soft, quiet sounds hummed into the Mute’s shoulder when the Mute is pressed deep within him.

It wouldn’t normally be a problem, but it frays the Mute’s control and he wants so desperately to just give in and _take, claim, possess_ —

“I love holding you in me,” Diarmuid says, voice rasping against the Mute’s chest. He bites softly at the meat of the Mute’s chest, the pleasure-pain making the Mute buck hard into him in response, eliciting a happy yelp from the Novice.

He tries to silence Diarmuid with kisses, pressing their lips together, sucking on Diarmuid’s tongue, nipping his lips— but nothing works. Diarmuid keens and whines and begs so earnestly that the Mute’s starts to tip too quickly towards orgasm.

“You’re so hot and hard inside me,” Diarmuid says, nails raking along his back and catching on raised scars.

“I love the feeling when you first press into me— the resistance, then the give. It’s a struggle at first, because you’re so big, but I like it,” Diarmuid confesses lowly, breath hot in the Mute’s ear.

“I like the stretch. It’s overwhelming and…it feels like being consumed.”

The Mute peppers kisses along Diarmuid’s clavicle, overwhelmed in his own way by Diarmuid’s confessions.

“I want to be consumed,” Diarmuid murmurs, and the Mute groans low, pulling back to change his grip on Diarmuid’s thighs and _breathe._

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Diarmuid says, tempting brown eyes traveling along the Mute’s body with undisguised lust. He reaches a hand down to touch himself and the Mute grits his teeth at the sight— Diarmuid tugging lazily at his pretty erection, twisting his hand at the head, other hand coming down to cup his own testicles— playing with himself while the Mute struggles to keep a steady pace. Hunger tugs at him as he watches Diarmuid press his fingers into the weeping slit, dampening his erection with the copious clear liquid, slicking the way for his hand.

“You’re always holding back when you mount me,” Diarmuid says, and the Mute sucks in a breath through his teeth as Diarmuid squeezes around him. It’s agony and he’s going to spill—

He leans back onto his heels, dragging Diarmuid with him to hold him in the Mute’s lap. Diarmuid flails at the sudden change, throwing his hands up above his head and tangling his fingers into their rough bedsheets.

“Sometime, will you not hold back,” Diarmuid asks, chest heaving in deep breathes, eyes wide and hopeful and _honest_.

The Mute’s hips jolt up without his permission, driving hard into Diarmuid. He freezes and grits his teeth even as Diarmuid yelps in pleasure at the new angle.

“Yes, yes— do that again, please—“

Helpless to resist, the Mute sets a slow pace, rolling his hips up, pressing into Diarmuid over and over again.

Diarmuid whines and tries to press down and quicken their pace.

“I want to feel you spill in me— mark me—I want to carry your seed inside me all day—“

The mute growls, falling too quickly towards orgasm, but Diarmuid won’t let up—

“I want—“ Diarmuid pauses, eyes darting up to the Mute’s.

“I want to ache for the rest of the day,” he confesses, eyes glittering, “like I did the first time you took me.”

The Mute groans, memories flooding him— _Diarmuid wincing whenever he sat, and the hot, heavy glances he threw at the Mute—_

“Remember how you found me when everyone was at the noon meal? I was touching myself because I kept getting an erection at the soreness— the reminder that I had a part of you within me—“

The Mute whines, vividly remembering finding Diarmuid with a fist in his mouth, hand jerking at his erection as he writhed against the forest floor. He remembers the shocked, embarrassed look on Diarmuid's face when he realized the Mute was watching him—

He jolts his hips up into Diarmuid at the memory.

“Yes, like that,” Diarmuid gasps at the hard thrust, and the Mute gives in— he always gives in— to whatever Diarmuid wants of him.

He grips Diarmuid’s hips and drives up into him, relentless, relishing every cut off moan and shiver. Diarmuid reaches a hand down to touch himself again and the Mute swats his hand away, wanting to make him spill like this, only on the Mute’s cock—

Diarmuid grips the sheets hard, gasping as his leaking erection smacks against his own belly with the Mute’s thrusts. He’s close, the Mute can tell, and he angles his hips carefully, pressing up and grinding against the spot within Diarmuid that makes him—

Diarmuid keens, loud, and the Mute panics at the noise, letting go of Diarmuid’s thighs and pressing a palm against Diarmuid’s mouth to muffle the sound. He manages to maintain the angle of his hips and keeps pressing, rubbing against the spot—

Diarmuid jolts, spilling hot white against his own stomach, up to his chest, and the Mute follows with the obscene tightness of Diarmuid’s muscles clenching around him.

Diarmuid recovers before him and licks at the Mute's palm where it's still pressed to Diarmuid's mouth, laughing when the Mute grimaces and wipes his hand along Diarmuid’s side.

The Mute pulls out of Diarmuid slowly, as always checking to make sure Diarmuid isn’t hurt before lying down next to him. Diarmuid quickly settles into his preferred spot, cushioning his head against the Mute’s shoulder and wrapping an arm around the Mute’s side.

“So,” Diarmuid murmurs, “next time. Harder.”

The Mute chokes on air, pinching Diarmuid’s side as the novice laughs and laughs.


End file.
